Holding Pattern
by SombraAlma
Summary: Post-island, Kate is on the run again.


Title: Holding Pattern  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.  
Summary: Post-rescue, Kate is on the run again.  
Spoilers: None for season 4.  
Note: This is a third installment, of sorts, to my strangely evolved In the Woods Trilogy, which consists of the companion pieces That Was Real and Elegy and now, this fic. Chronologically, it fits between those two, but you don't have to read those to understand this one. You should know, though, that this fic is based off of flashbacks that occur in Elegy.  
And once again, thank you, thank you, thank you to lenina20, whose encouragement, read-throughs, suggestions, and general enthusiasm made it possible for me to write this.

-----

It's not until she calls the sixteenth J. Kwon in the Los Angeles phone book that Kate finally hears a familiar voice on the other end of the line. "Sun?"

There's a long pause, then, "Kate? Kate, is that you?"

She's surprised to feel hot tears at the back of her eyes at the unexpected recognition. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

"Kate, are you all right? They...they have been here, looking for you."

"I know." She does know, or she should have known; at the very least she'd suspected. "I'm sorry, Sun. I'm sorry. I never wanted to...involve...you, any of you."

"Are you _all right_?"

She nods, though the other woman can't see her, somewhat stunned at Sun's concern for her. "I'm fine." She wipes at her eyes, clearing her vision as she stares at the lists of names and numbers in front of her. "How...how is Ae-Cha? And Jin?" She recalls the news bulletin she'd heard, that she'd asked the Marshall to turn up. He'd sneered at her but complied, turning the volume up on the car's radio in time for her to hear the human interest piece about the baby girl born to the Korean survivors of Oceanic Flight 815.

And now, she can almost hear Sun smiling. "Ae-Cha is growing so fast, and Jin loves being a father."

"I wish I could..." Kate cuts herself off; she can't, won't wish for something that could put her friends in danger. Not again. "I'm glad, Sun. I'm so happy for you."

There's another long pause, an awkward break in conversation that Kate can't recall ever occurring on the island. Then, "Kate, do you need anything?" Sun sounds earnest, almost hopeful. "Anything at all?"

This is a bad idea. She knows it is, knows she shouldn't have called. She looks at the timer she'd set (never know whose phones they've tapped); she's going to have to hang up soon. A deep breath. "I need to know where he is."

-----

The motel room is dingy, small, not unlike the long string of rooms she'd passed through before the island. (She divides her life like this now, before the island, on the island, after the island. She supposes they all do.) Kate stares at the piece of paper in her hand, committing the hastily scribbled address to memory before flicking her lighter open and watching the torn page of J. Kwons curl and burn. She runs the water in the bathroom sink then, rinsing the ashes down the drain.

Sun hadn't needed to ask who she'd been talking about. She'd said his name, once, in confirmation before finding the list of addresses and phone numbers Rose had compiled after the rescue, and Kate had been reminded of opening the bottle full of messages, frantically trying to find _his_. Sun hadn't needed to ask then, either. She'd known; Kate sometimes thinks the other woman has always known.

She repeats the address to herself as she strips down, runs the water in the shower until it warms up. She repeats it again as she steps under the now-steaming water, over and over as she washes the day's sweat and dirt and fear from her skin. She keeps repeating it as she scrubs at her hair, washing the temporary blond out (there's _one_ person she wants to recognize her - and she has to remember where he is, or she'll never get there).

Later, she combs out her still-damp hair, brunette again, in front of the streaked mirror while on the television set, Laura Ingalls skips through a field in her sunbonnet "Little House," she murmurs to herself, remembering, and almost laughs. A clean slate sounds damned good right about now.

-----

It's a long time dark when she sets out again, leaving the room key on top of the deserted lobby desk and pulling her hat further down over her eyes. At the back of the darkened parking lot, she changes the license plate on the car and checks her map with a small penlight before driving away, out of the hot city that suffocates her.

She's not at all surprised that the address she'd gotten from Sun will take her several hours out of the city, but as she gets closer to her destination she decides to get rid of the car. Deeper in the woods, she removes all the extra license plates from the trunk, packing them with her small collection of belongings in the same bag she'd used on the island, and sets off on foot. (And perhaps giving up her one quick way to escape is a bad idea, but she won't put him in any more danger than she already has.)

Following the lights of the highway from the seclusion of the woods, she can almost pretend she's back there, on the island. She has the same dead man's boots, the same dead girl's backpack, the same sense of urgency and danger that keeps her moving. The only difference is, this time she knows. She knows what's chasing her and she knows what they'll do to her if they catch her. And she's not sure which scenario is worse.

She can tell she's getting closer when the traffic on the highway thins to the occasional big rig on a cross-country run. She stops to rest in a small clearing, looks at her map again. Taking off her backpack, she lays down, stretching her sore muscles, looking up at the sky. Outside of the city, she can almost see stars again. It reminds her of Iowa and Tom, of the island and _him_. Her stomach knots and she breathes deeply, in and out. _Every now and again there's one._ He'd never known she'd overheard his words to Karl, but they won't leave her mind now. _One you name dumb stars with._

But it'll be getting light soon, and she needs to keep moving. Keep moving, keep moving, and maybe when she gets there she can finally rest.

-----

And it_is_ light now, though in the denser parts of the forest the sun has yet to filter through the trees enough to burn off the early-morning fog. She's getting close, she can feel it, and little by little, she begins to see signs of people – _a_ person – in the underbrush. She stoops to examine a footprint, traces its edges with a finger; her breath catches as she recognizes the tread and size of the boot. She moves more carefully now, slowly, finding a worn place beneath a tree where he's sat, perhaps to read. Further still, she finds a small cluster of felled trees, half of them chopped into logs. From there, a path that's obviously well-trod, and she slows even more.

Standing on his trail she stops, eyes closed, a feeling of dread coming over her. He has a life here, a home, probably a lot of solitude that she's sure he enjoys. And who is she to disturb that? Who is she to put him at risk? The last true home she's been in had been Ray's farm, and that hadn't ended well for either of them.

But the bag is heavy on her back; her shoulders are sore, her feet hurt, and she's exhausted. She opens her eyes and walks a few hundred more feet, until she sees the outline of a house through the trees.

And now she's standing on his front porch. She has to repeat that to herself, in her mind, because it feels too surreal. She's standing on his front porch. There's no flap of tarp to push away, and she knows he won't be laying down on a blue airline blanket on the sand. Instead there's a door, a real door, and inside probably even real furniture. Electricity instead of the glow of fire from down the beach. Suddenly, she's not ready for this, at all. She doesn't know him here, in civilization, in a real house. A home.

She raises her hand and knocks.

She has to knock several times more before she hears movement in the house. She hears him curse loudly, and that makes her smile, relaxes her nerves a bit. "Hang on a goddamned minute. No tresspassin' means no tresspassin', 'specially at six in the--"

The voice stops abruptly as the door swings open.

And she sees it immediately, the look of surprise tinged with a relief so intense it frightens her. She almost takes a step back. It's gone as quickly as it'd come, though; he hides it fast and he hides it well. "Six in the goddamned morning," he finishes flatly, then seems to shake himself out of a stupor. "Well, well, well, if it ain't Bonnie Parker herself."

"Hey, Sawyer."

He seems to get almost angry then, eyes flashing with something she recalls all too clearly from the island. "Ain't you got another place to go? Someone else who'll harbor a fugitive for ya?"

She remembers what had worked on the island, pushing him back and straddling him and kissing him silent, but she can't do that. Not here, not now. Some part of her knows he's just doing what he does, trying to piss her off, but she thinks about Sun and her baby, about Jack, whose name Sun had mentioned in a worried tone, and she shakes her head. Quietly, "There isn't anybody else."

They stand there, staring each other down, until Sawyer inclines his head towards the open door. "Well, ya shouldn't be standin' out here in the open, far as I can guess. C'mon in, Freckles, 'cause I sure ain't the carryin' you over the threshold type."

-----

She's sitting at his kitchen table now, eating toast and a bowl of cereal and drinking a mug of coffee, hotter than she's had in months. He's sitting across from her, casually sipping his own coffee, as if this is what they do every morning and it's not completely unexpected and surreal that she's even _here_.

"Hungry, huh?"

She looks up from the bowl and nods as she studies him. He looks the same. Well, with a few notable exceptions. His face is slightly fuller; he's lost the almost gaunt look they'd all started to take on in the weeks before the rescue. His hair is clean (though she notes he needs a haircut again), as are his clothes, and it looks as if he's actually shaved sometime in the last few days. "You look good," she finally says aloud, taking another bite of toast, and she can see he's amused by the admission.

"Fishin' for compliments, Sweetcheeks?" He flashes her a grin, disarming as always.

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Well, then," he drawls, "I'll be sure to thank my stylist."

"You do that." She pushes her empty plate away and wraps her hands around the coffee mug, drowsy despite the caffeine. They sit in silence for several more moments, then, "Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?"

He arches an eyebrow and shows her a dimple, though there's no humor in his eyes. "I'd ask if I thought you'd tell me, Freckles."

-----

Hours later, the sun is bright; she awakens slowly and at first she's confused. She sits up, groggy, and then her eyes fall on a stack of books on the nightstand and it comes back to her. Knocking on Sawyer's front door, coffee and cereal, and somehow her legs had carried her up the stairs to his bed. She vaguely recalls an argument about taking the couch, instead, but she must been even more tired than she'd thought, because he'd won. Obviously she'd been off her game.

Standing up, she curls her toes against the rough wood floor as she looks around the room. Sparsely furnished, there still manage to be some familiar elements. From the books on the nightstand and the shelves across the room, to several shirts she swears she recognizes folded haphazardly on a chair, to the small collection of empty beer bottles on top of the dresser, this is obviously Sawyer's bedroom.

She opens what appears to be a closet door, and she's surprised to discover that he owns a suit. Two, actually, and she pauses for a moment to picture what that looks like, Sawyer in a suit. And then she catches herself and picks out a clean shirt, soft and worn.

Padding across the hall to the bathroom, she lets the shower run as she uses the toilet, then steps under the warm stream of water. After an indulgent shower (she thinks she'll never take one for granted again), she dresses in his shirt and her jeans, tying the tails of the shirt at her waist. She finger-combs her wet hair as she makes her way from the bathroom towards the kitchen they'd sat in this morning.

"Well...ain't you a sight for sore eyes."

She startles just slightly and turns towards his voice. He's sitting on the couch, book in hand, and she marvels at the easy expression on his face, as if he's used to having unexpected visitors show up in the early morning, sleep in his bed and use his shower and wear his clothes. (And then she wonders, briefly, if maybe he _is._) "Hey." She perches on the edge of the couch and smooths her hands down the front of her jeans. "You got new glasses."

When she mentions the articles he pushes them up so they rest atop his head. "Much as I love Harry Potter fashion..." He shrugs. "Just wasn't impressin' the ladies like it did on the Island O' Doom."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, amused in spite of herself. "Still as charming as ever."

A slow grin starts across his face as he looks her over. "You're wearin' my shirt."

"Mine was dirty." She plucks at the sleeves that reach down over her hands.

"I noticed."

She suddenly has a flash of memory; of Sawyer tugging her shirt over her head, her boots off her feet, as she'd lain, exhausted, on top of his bed. He'd pulled the sheet over her, too, but she'd been too tired to register surprise or gratitude at his care. She looks away, shoulders tightening, eyes burning with sudden emotion.

The couch creaks softly as he moves over, and then his hand is on her shoulder, pulling her closer to him. She struggles at first (old habits) but finally gives in and finds herself curled against his chest. One of his arms encircles her tightly; she can feel his other hand in her hair, lightly combing through the damp curls. He's held her like this only twice before – once after Libby died and again after they'd made love in the bear cage – and now, like before, she's overwhelmed. She presses her forehead against his chest before lifting her head to find him studying her intently.

He opens his mouth to speak but she brings her lips to his, burying his words until they're just a small, soft sound as his tongue finds hers, again.

-----

Later, she'll have trouble remembering the rest of the day. It's all muddled together with awkward conversation and impossible explanations that get buried in the heat of their bodies, together. They don't know how to talk to each other – they never have, not without alcohol or sex or both between them to soften their words – and that hasn't changed, so they don't try.

And it's been too long, but she still remembers the exact pressure of her hips on his that will make him curse roughly, and he can still find that exact place on the back of her knee that will make her squirm with the lightest touch of his tongue.

They don't use his bed. It's almost as if it doesn't occur to them, until much later, that it's even an option. The old couch is good enough, and actually softer than the sand and airline blankets they're accustomed to, even though his long legs make it awkwardly cramped and the tabletop lamp rattles precariously more than once, nicked by an errant foot. They even move to the floor once, when he starts grumbling about how she's taking up too much room on the short couch, but she complains about the hard floor and doesn't he know what a rug is? until he gives a long-suffering sigh and hauls her back up with him onto the couch. "Gettin' picky, are we, Freckles?"

What she does remember of this first day, later, will be a lot of sex – but in actuality, there's a lot of lazy cuddling and lounging, even sleeping on her part, reading on his, interrupted by short bursts of impassioned lovemaking. The part of her memory that's accurate will remind her of a sense of stolen safety, the strange feeling of being somewhere she doesn't have to leave immediately (though she still has her exits impeccably mapped out, just in case).

The feeling won't last, she knows that. But for today, she's determined to keep it.

-----

She wakes up the next morning feeling restless. (Knew the feeling wouldn't last.) Easing out from under his arm - they'd finally made it to his bed - she swings her legs over the side of the bed and moves quietly as she pulls on her jeans, the shirt of his she'd borrowed, socks. She's picking up her boots when she hears the sheets rustle behind her.

"S'pose I shouldn't even ask, huh?"

She turns towards him; he's propped up on an elbow, weary look on his face. Like he knows what's coming. "Ask what?"

He scowls at her. "C'mon, Freckles. This little game you play, it ain't so fun from this side."

_Think it's fun for me? _She looks down at the boots in her hand. "I was just...going for a walk."

"A walk." His stubborn disbelief is apparent as he reaches for a t-shirt and pulls it over his head. "Guess I'm not invited, then?"

"Sawyer..."

"You comin' back from this walk, _Kate_?" He talks over her, won't let her say more than his name.

"I wouldn't do that, Sawyer." The grip on her boots tightens as she makes a decision. "I wouldn't leave without...telling you."

He stands up from the bed and pulls his own jeans on, pushes past her on his way out of the bedroom. "Coffee'll be ready when you're back."

-----

She catches him, not making coffee, but following her as she explores the woods behind his house. He still can't track worth a damn, and he's doing a piss-poor job of it today, but she guesses he gets points for trying. She watches him from her perch in a tree, and waits until he's directly beneath her to speak up. He pretends to grumble when she laughs at him, and makes a show of crashing through the underbrush back towards the house, claiming grumpily she's _intruding_ on _his_ woods.

He's still at the house when she returns. He's there the next day, too, antsy and pacing, and finally she has to sit him down and promise him (again) that she's not going to leave while he's out. Won't leave without saying goodbye.

And she only hopes it's a promise she can keep.

Days go by, then a week. She's free, freer than she's been since the rescue, certainly. (Or, at least, she allows herself the indulgence of the illusion of freedom – she pushes into the back recesses of her mind the constant fear and looking-over-her-shoulder and the thoughts that they're still out there, somewhere, chasing her.)

She roams the woods during the days, back again to where she's only ever felt at home, feels the presence of her father (Daddy), where she can pretend to forget everything else. There are trees she can climb, deer she can track, and she marvels at whatever or whoever caused Sawyer to pick such a place to live. The only place _she_ could ever live.

Kate's never been good at gratitude. So she shows it, clumsily, with small attempts at reassuring domesticity. She brings plants back that she knows will be good with their dinner. She fills mismatched cups with water and floats small flowers atop the surface tension. She arranges a small collection of stones she finds on the kitchen windowsill (and she's slightly bothered by the lack of _curtains_ in this place, and she briefly considers sewing some, until she remembers that there had never been an apartment, never been curtains or a sewing machine, and she remembers a time where all she'd been able to do was lie).

He, of course, has never been good at gratitude, either. And so he grumbles and rumbles and curses and calls her collections "knickknacks" in a disparaging tone.

But she notices he never throws any of it away, either.

-----

It's moving on two weeks that she's been here, now. And she wakes in the morning, no longer surprised at where she is, whose back she's pressed against. She stirs and he turns, covering her body with his, a slow, heavy kiss, his fingers raking through her tangled hair, possessing; she hooks a leg around his waist, her own way of staking her claim. She feels his embrace as his way of keeping her here.

And she's afraid to discover that it might be working. Terrified at the thought that she might let him keep this, keep them. And she can't. Because she knows, she's always known, how this must end.

So it's nighttime again, and now he's the one pressed against her back, so she has to wriggle from beneath his arm to slip out of bed. She dresses quietly in the darkened room, pulls her always-packed bag from the closet. And she remembers her promise, so she stays by the window. He'll wake up. He always does.

"What's that, Freckles?"

She turns, sees him sitting up in bed, his eyes on the bag at her feet. When his gaze swings back up to hers, something shatters inside of her. He knows, and she hadn't counted on this hurting so much.

"C'mon back to bed, girl. It's dark out."

She can feel the shattered pieces inside, and she steels herself. She should have never come here. Should have let him forget, should have made herself forget. The two weeks of freedom, of peace, of safety...nothing should cost _this_, the look on his face now that she knows he's desperately trying to hide. "It's safer in the dark," is what she does say, because she has to keep thinking of what she has to do, how to minimize damage for her, for him, for both of them. Cut and run and pick up the pieces after they fall. It's all she knows.

"Why now?"

It's not fair, but she can't answer him. And then he's reaching out to her, grasping onto her hand so tightly that all she can do is let him pull her back to the bed. She's trembling as he removes her clothing, and she thinks, _this is the last time._

-----

He comes into the woods with her the next day, and for the first time she doesn't attempt to lose him, and she only waits a short while before letting him find her. He halfheartedly jokes that she's losing her touch, and she just tells him to shut up, a grin crossing her face as she takes off suddenly, a sprint through the trees.

He's fast, and he catches her quickly, pins her up against a tree, her wrists encircled by his hands, both of them breathing heavily with faces close. She can see it on his face, the decision to forget about last night, and she thinks this short reprieve, both of them smiling now, won't make it hurt any less.

And she's right.

They're sitting on the couch when the last of the day's light disappears from the sky. He's reading, but not really – she notices he's been on the same page for the past hour. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it again; she's never been good at goodbyes. He lets her get up, lets her walk upstairs, looks at her like he's expected this reaction when she's back downstairs just as quickly. "What the hell, Sawyer?"

His eyes widen with a fake innocence and he marks his place in his book with a finger. "Gonna have to be a little more specific with a question like that, Shortcake."

She sets her jaw, though she's not entirely sure why she's surprised at this. "Where's my bag?"

A standoff. He sets the book down and his eyes blaze at her, questions and accusations, and while she knows it's all fair, she doesn't back down. "This isn't funny, Sawyer."

"Do I look like I'm laughin'?"

"Sawyer."

He sighs, finally, stands up and tosses the book almost angrily onto the cushions of the couch. He disappears into the kitchen and then returns, holding her bag out to her. "Hadta try." It's muttered quietly, and she takes the bag with an almost apologetic look.

In the end, he follows her outside, and at the edge of the woods they stop.

"Be careful."

She almost smiles at that, and she wants to tell him she's doing this for him, that she'd meant what she'd said to Sun, she'd never wanted to involve any of them in this, in _her._ But she can't say any of it, and she busies herself with adjusting the straps of her pack on her shoulders.

"You know...where I am. If ya need a place again."

She knows. Two weeks, and it's already become home. She knows. She reaches for his hand, linking her fingers with his, squeezing. "Thanks, James."

Goodbye. She doesn't do goodbye. Can't. She turns and steps into the woods.

"I love you."

She _doesn't_ do goodbye. This isn't fair. But she turns and walks back to him; her hands cup his face before she can think too long about it, and she brings her lips to his, burning the sensation of his mouth onto hers. After too long, she pulls away, though their foreheads still touch and she's not sure who's doing the breathing for the both of them. "I know." (And maybe she should say more; she knows he _deserves_ to hear more, but she can't get past the shattering and the guilt and the unfairness of this all. _I know_ will have to be enough. For him, for her, for them.)

This time, she doesn't turn back. Two steps into the woods turn into ten and into a hundred, and she doesn't look back until she's sure she'll see nothing but trees.

-----

Hidden in the dark underbrush, the black horse's ears prick forward as he hears her footsteps recede into the distance.


End file.
